by Dick Gillman
Holmes passed me the itinerary that the ambassador had given to him. “Ah, yes. Thursday, an unannounced visit to the Observatory at Greenwich.”
Hardly had I said these words when Mrs Hudson rushed into our rooms with the early edition of the evening newspaper.
“Oh Mr Holmes! There has been an explosion at Greenwich Park! An unknown man is dead, sir!”
Holmes leapt from his chair, snatched the newspaper from her hand and quickly scanned it. He frowned as he did so. “It is as I suspected. Thankfully, no-one else was injured.”
I looked at Holmes in some amazement. “What? You knew that this might happen?”
Holmes sat down, his face filled with concern. “I suspected something of the sort, Watson. Let me recount this morning's sequence of events. A message came to me from Wiggins that he had followed the man we saw last night to a lodging house in Fitzroy Street. I collected some things that I thought I might find useful and made my way there. Wiggins had watched the man enter the lodging house and then seen him light the gas and close the curtains in the top front bedroom.”
Holmes paused and I urged him to continue. “It was fortunate that the house had a 'Vacancies' sign in the front window. I approached the landlady, renting a room at the front of the house for ten shillings. Making sure that I knew where the man's room was, I silently ventured out onto the landing. From there, he could be heard moving around. Retiring to my own room and, by leaving my door open a crack, I was able to observe the stairs.” I nodded, eager to hear more.
“After some ten minutes his door opened and he left. I waited five minutes more and then, by using a lock pick which I had brought in the Gladstone, I entered his room. The room was similar to my own with little space to hide anything of substance. However, I noticed the rather threadbare rug next to the bed had been scuffed and, on searching beneath it, saw that one of the floor boards had been recently loosened. Lifting it carefully, I found, in the void below, a brown paper package. After removing the wrappings to allow a closer inspection, I discovered it to be a quite sophisticated bomb.” I gasped and begged Holmes to continue.
“It was quite a small but deadly device. The explosive charge was intended only to kill any persons within a few feet of it. I was fascinated by the intricacy of the timing and detonation mechanism. The timing, I could see, was controlled by a watch movement of French origin. This had already been set for a five minute delay, allowing the bomber sufficient time to escape, after planting the device. Further inspection showed there was also a second setting of a few seconds delay so that the bomb could also be hurled at its victim.”
“Like a grenade!” I shouted.
Holmes nodded. “Quite so, Watson. I took the liberty of carefully altering the connections so that if either setting was selected, the device would explode instantly. It was far from being the perfect solution… but I had little choice. Had I made the device inoperable, the bomber would have thought the device had failed and he would have lived to make another attempt. I wrapped the device as it was before, replaced it, and left the room, locking the door after me.”
It took a few moments for me to consider what Holmes had just said. “So… the person who was killed this afternoon was the anarchist bomber!”
Holmes looked grim. “Exactly, Watson. Be a good fellow and read the newspaper report aloud.”
I took the newspaper from Holmes and began to read. “This afternoon, in Greenwich Park, an explosion occurred on the path leading to the observatory which mortally wounded a young man. Two of the observatory staff, Mr Thackeray and Mr Hollis were entertaining an official visitor in the lower computing room when they were startled by what they described as “a sharp and clear detonation”. On hearing this, they looked out to see the observatory doorkeeper running across the courtyard. They rapidly followed him down the hillside, north of the observatory, where a park warden was running towards a crouched figure on the path.” I paused for breath before continuing,
“According to reports, the observatory staff at first thought the man had shot himself but, as they drew closer, they could see that he had sustained horrific injuries. His left hand was completely missing and they observed a gaping hole in the region of his stomach. It was a miracle that he was still alive. Soon, a doctor was called from the nearby Seaman's Hospital and the young man was taken away by stretcher. It appears that he could still speak but, apparently, would not give his name nor say what had happened. Unfortunately, the extent of his injuries was such that he died within thirty minutes.”
Holmes frowned. “From his position on the path to the observatory, it seems that our friend was on his way to deposit the package. I imagine that he was attempting to set the device for a five minute delay when it exploded.”
I nodded, adding, “Yes, thanks to you Holmes! Otherwise we might be reading of the death of the King of Italy and two staff from the observatory!”
Holmes was still greatly troubled. “My action posed a grave risk to the Public, Watson. It was a decision that I did not take lightly.” Looking to my friend, I could see that this was going to haunt Holmes for some considerable time to come.
Rising from his chair, he turned to me, saying, “We need to try and learn more of this fellow, Watson. I must despatch a telegram to Mycroft so that we are present at the post mortem.” With that, he dashed off a note and rang for Mrs Hudson.
We received the reply within the hour and were soon in a cab on our way to the mortuary at the Seaman's Hospital, Greenwich.
As we travelled, I enquired of Holmes what might be the motive for such an attack. Holmes looked grim, replying with a question, “Apart from their seemingly inherent hatred of the nobility and authority, Watson? You may recall a report last week in ‘The Times’ of the execution, in France, of the notorious anarchist, Auguste Vaillant? He was convicted of the bombing of the Chamber of Deputies in Paris last December. There was, it appears, a futile reprisal for the execution only two days ago when a bomb was detonated in a Paris cafe.”
It was something that I had not considered and was enraged by it. “You think that these occurrences are linked, Holmes?”
Holmes shrugged, saying, “It is a distinct possibility, Watson.”
I sat back, open mouthed, as I considered his reply. “This is monstrous, Holmes! Innocent people killed by these...these animals!”
Holmes raised a finger of caution. “Not animals, Watson! Animals usually find some way to co-exist, they fight when attacked but they are not vengeful.” After this exchange we drove on in silence, each deep in our own thoughts.
Mycroft, we saw, had already arrived at the Seaman's Hospital and, after a brief handshake, we followed him to the mortuary. A pathologist of some note had already begun the post mortem, no doubt retained by Mycroft and working under the provisions of the Official Secrets Act. Holmes was eager to examine the clothes and the contents of the man's pockets. These had been placed on one side and were blood soaked, bearing witness to the terrible wounds the victim had sustained.
Holmes spent some time closely examining these items before turning to Mycroft. “From his clothes, he was clearly a French national. The large amount of French currency he was carrying suggests he was about to return there. I observed that he had a copy of a tram timetable with the times of the trams from Westminster to Greenwich underlined.”
Mycroft nodded. “Yes, I am most grateful to you for supplying us with his address. A thorough search of his room revealed his papers which were hidden within his mattress. His name was Martial Bourdin, a 26 year old Frenchman.”
Mycroft then had a sly look on his face as he said, “You may find this of interest.” Reaching into his coat, he pulled out an oil skin pouch. From this he carefully extracted a blood stained piece of paper. Looking over Holmes’ shoulder, I saw that there had been drawn upon it a crude map showing Greenwich Park and the outline of the observatory.
Holmes took the paper, moved nearer to one of the gas lights and, with his magnifying glass, he exa
mined it closely. Holmes frowned. “It confirms our suspicions of an anarchist sympathiser at the embassy. The paper is clearly from there. Did you notice the discreet letter 'S' at the corner of the paper?”
Mycroft nodded, adding, “Of the inner circle of diplomats, there are but two with a name beginning with 'S', both of whom are trusted completely.”
Holmes considered this for a moment. “I think there is another explanation, Mycroft. These two diplomats are individuals known intimately by His Excellency, drawn from noble Italian families. Neither of them is likely to be the sympathiser and even more unlikely to leave a clue to their identity through a monogram. A much more feasible explanation is an embassy employee who is member of the anarchist group, 'Solidarieta', known to be active here in London.”
Mycroft raised an eyebrow and Holmes continued. “I have good intelligence that the ringleaders of the London anarchists have a great interest in the Sicilian group, the 'Fasci Siciliani'. Indeed, three of them have left London to organise a Sicilian uprising. What an achievement it would be if the King of Italy were to be assassinated by one of their group in London!”
Mycroft looked grim. “Sherlock, your analysis has great virtue, as always. My information is that this Bourdin fellow had been a frequent visitor to the Club Autonomie. I will despatch a telegram to Lestrade at Scotland Yard and arrange for the club to be raided this very evening.”
Further conversation was cut short by the appearance of the pathologist who approached us, drying his hands. He nodded in our direction and I had recognised his face immediately but I stayed silent.
Casting aside the towel, he addressed Mycroft. “It is as you would imagine, Mycroft. The blast was responsible for the gross injuries but he was fatally injured by the components of the device piercing the vital organs in the chest cavity, causing massive bleeding. I have removed most of the fragments, as you can see.” Saying this, he pointed to a kidney bowl of twisted, blood soaked, metal. Reaching for his coat, he continued, “I will send a messenger to your office in the morning with my written report, Mycroft.”
Mycroft nodded. “Thank you, Charles. I will join you later at the Reform Club.”
Chapter 5 - Dressing for the Ball.
On our return to Baker Street we sat for an hour, smoking a final pipe before retiring. Holmes, I noticed, had been somewhat withdrawn. Sitting in his old leather armchair, his knees drawn up to his chest and eyes half closed.
“Do you think they will try again, Holmes?” I asked.
Holmes breathed out a thin ribbon of smoke and, in a quiet voice, said, “Yes, I fear so… and soon. They will want to maintain the pressure and not miss an opportunity to gain kudos! This masked ball could be an ideal place to strike.”
In preparation for the ball, I had gleaned from Holmes that it was to be a renaissance of the Venetian style, with fine, flowing robes and jewelled masks. The following morning I was despatched to a costumiers in Bond Street in order to hire two costumes. Obtaining them, however, proved to be quite difficult as the Venetian style had fallen from fashion. Never the less, I finally succeeded and returned triumphant to Baker Street.
Holmes always gained great pleasure from disguises and, since my acquaintance with him, I have marvelled at the variety of personas he has effected. Opening the parcels, I could see Holmes’ eyes light up. “Splendid! Watson. You have done us proud.”
I beamed, saying, “Yes, nobody will recognise us in these!”
On hearing this, Holmes’ smile faded somewhat. “You are, of course, correct. However, a disguise is a two edged sword, old friend. It is imperative that we are at the top of our game this evening, Watson. Be sure to bring your service revolver, it may be of some use.”
For Holmes to have the need to remind me of this meant that the 'game' was, indeed, serious.
With nothing more that could be done, we ate a light meal and dressed in our costumes. We both looked resplendent in our finery but finding a place to unobtrusively hide a revolver in my costume was, indeed, troublesome.
Holmes saw me fumbling and chuckled. “Ah, Watson. You see the limitations of modern weaponry married to clothes from a past era. At the time of this fashion, the assassin's choice of weapon would have been the stiletto, easily concealed in the commodious jacket sleeve and slim enough to be invisible. I fear that the Webley in your coat pocket is somewhat more conspicuous.”
I admit I was a little piqued by this and retorted, “How, then, are you arming yourself this evening?” Holmes proceeded to the umbrella stand and selected a fine, silver topped cane. This, I grudgingly observed, complemented his attire perfectly. I goaded him a little by saying, “Hmm, there is little protection there, I think, Holmes.”
His response was but to smile. There was a flash of silver as in one, swift, movement, Holmes had drawn a slender sword from the cane and was in the 'en garde' position, ready to strike. Raising an eyebrow, Holmes replied, “I believe this will suffice, Watson.”
Dressing in our warm coats and mufflers, we took a Hansom and followed the same route as before. Approaching the rear courtyard door, Holmes paused, bending down to retrieve something. “Hello, what have we here?” He moved to where the light from the gas lamp was brightest and examined the object.
I peered at what Holmes was holding and saw that it was a small, silk tassel. “Ha! It must have fallen from someone's costume” said I.
Holmes looked more closely. “Not fallen, Watson, torn off … and there is blood on it.” Crouching down, Holmes examined the cobblestones. “There were three people here and they were fighting, Watson. I can see the different scrape patterns as they jostled.” Holmes stood up and hurried to the door. He raised his cane to knock but saw there was a chink of light at the edge of the door frame. Cautiously, he pushed with his gloved hand and the heavy door swung open.
There was no sign of the doorkeeper and Holmes stood, motionless, like an English Setter, every sense alert. Upon one wall there was a distinct smear of blood and, on looking down at the floor, Holmes detected more. It glistened like a long string of rubies leading to what appeared to be a large pantry. At this point, I drew my revolver. I had travelled with it in my coat pocket, that being the most comfortable place for it.
Holmes crept forward and listened intently at the door. Leaning close to me, he whispered, “I can hear breathing.” I positioned myself to one side of the door frame in order to get a clear shot and mindful not to present too much of a target. I nodded my readiness to Holmes, who, at my signal, threw open the door.
I aimed my revolver towards the interior, ready to fire. Holmes was there at my side, ready to pounce on anything that should emerge. Thankfully, all was still. The light from the hallway was sufficient for us to be able to see inside. There, in a crumpled heap, was the door keeper with a savage wound to his head, his face bruised and streaked with blood. He was bound and gagged and a steady flow of blood seeped from his wound. I quickly looked around for something to compress the wound. Finding a supply of clean, kitchen linen, I used a towel to apply pressure and assuage the bleeding. Holmes removed the man's gag and the doorkeeper began to stir.
It took a few moments for him to recognise us and he started to struggle to free his bonds. I quickly removed those securing his wrists whilst Holmes freed his ankles. He had been badly beaten and I laid a hand on his shoulder, preventing him from trying to rise. He struggled to speak to us and I feared that he had several broken ribs.
“Signori, there were two of them. They said they were delivering costumes for the ball, I opened the door and they leapt upon me. I tried to push them outside. We fought in the doorway and in the courtyard but they were armed with iron bars.” He coughed and a trickle of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth.
Holmes placed a hand on the man’s shoulder, saying “Steady, old fellow. Did you get a look at them?”
The doorkeeper shook his head. “No, they had mufflers… but under their coats they were wearing costumes for the ball. I tore open the coat of on
e of them as we struggled.”
Holmes gave me a knowing look. He patted the doorkeeper on the forearm, saying, “Stay here, we will get help.” As Holmes was about to rise, he observed the edge of a footprint in the pool of blood from the doorkeeper. “Hello! If we are fortunate, Watson, we may be able to identify both assailants.”
In the corner of the pantry were two discarded overcoats and mufflers and Holmes looked at them briefly. “There is little further to be gleaned here, Watson. We must get help and locate the ambassador.” Leaving our coats and mufflers behind, we exited into the embassy proper. A passing footman was hailed and directed to aid his fallen colleague.
From the atrium, the ambassador could be seen at the head of the stairs, welcoming his guests. His face visibly brightened at our approach. He warmly grasped Holmes’ hand saying, “Ah, Sherlock. I am relieved to see you. I have told His Majesty of your presence here tonight.”
Holmes leant forward and, in low tones, began to recount what we had found below stairs. The colour immediately drained from the ambassador's face. He took Holmes’ arm and they were soon in an animated conversation. From my position, I could not fully hear what was said but I picked out the words 'blood' and 'shoes'. Finally, the ambassador nodded. I admit I was a little bemused when the ambassador spoke quietly to his wife and then she and Holmes left together. Holmes signed to me to remain and, after a few minutes, he returned holding a fine, marcasite encrusted ladies shoe that sparkled in the light from the chandeliers overhead.
Chapter 6 - A Venetian Cinderella.
Taking me to one side, Holmes lowered his voice. “Watson, your task is to discover the whereabouts of the fellow with the missing tassel. When you find him, place yourself close behind him and do not let him out of your sight! If he approaches the King, you must be ready to act decisively. For my part, I must search for the other one. Now, no matter how bizarre my actions may appear, do not let yourself become distracted. You must protect the King.” With that, he slipped his mask over his face and was gone. I too put on my mask in order to be at one with the assembled guests. As I did so, a liveried footman approached and proffered glass of Champagne, which I refused. My thinking being that I needed to keep both my hands free.